


Ten Times He Almost

by andachippedcup



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andachippedcup/pseuds/andachippedcup





	1. In The Land That Was

The first time it happens, he’s too petrified to breathe, let alone to act on the urge.

He hasn’t felt anything like this for centuries and he’s both too surprised and too afraid to move. But when she leans over him to pour his tea, Rumplestiltskin can’t deny that he’s very much tempted to touch her. He can’t deny that his eyes fall to the swell of her dress (which, with her leaning to pour his tea, is temptingly close). He can’t deny that his fingers yearn to knit her fingers into his. She’s a beautiful creature, after all.

 _It’s only natural a man should feel a bit of lust for so pretty a bauble_. 

Distracted by his less than innocent thoughts, he doesn’t realize she’s about to pour milk into his tea until it’s nearly too late.  He throws a hand out to stop her, for milk and tea are not his preference.

The action, however, apparently startles her, because she jerks the little cream pot away from his cup and in so doing, she spills the contents all over the table.

She’s flustered and apologetic, her fingers flying to untie the knots of her apron. She whisks it off and balls it up quickly, using it to mop up the mess.

“I’m so sorry, I was startled, I didn’t mean to.” She babbles nervously and he can’t help but put up a hand to stop her. She pauses in her actions and looks to him uncertainly.

“Dearie, I’m not going to get mad over a wee bit of spilled milk.” He chortles. And in spite of the laugh, there’s something genuine in his voice. Something warm that says  _I will take care of you_.

She stares at him intently and for some moments, their eyes are locked; innocent baby blues against guilty black gems.

His fingers twitch with the desire to pull her toward him and kiss away her concern. Instead, he snaps them together, and the mess disappears.

“There now, that’s better.” He offers, and his fingers reach out, place three spoons of sugar into his tea stir, then bring the cup to his lips.

He’d much rather have her on his lips than this tea though.

——-

The second time it happens, they’re outside (at her insistence). She is gardening while he looks on, unable to understand how she is able to coax life out of the black soil without any magic to speak of. She’s rooting around with the snapdragons, humming a happy refrain as she removes the weeds that have sprung up overnight. That’s when they hear a bird begin to sing. Belle’s instantly intrigued, pausing in her work to look around for the songstress. She finds the feathered lady not so high up in a tree, proudly sitting on her nest.

Belle’s captivated, watching the mother bird tending to her little brood of chicks, who are in their awkward in-between stage. Not yet adult, not yet chicks; they’re ugly as can be in Rumplestiltskin’s opinion, but Belle has adoration in her eyes.

“Oh, aren’t they  _darling_  Rumplestiltskin?” She asks.

From his perch atop the stone garden wall he pauses, looks long and hard at the birds and then back at her.

“If you say so, dearie.”

She frowns at him, knowing that he’s teasing her, then goes back to her gardening, humming cheerfully as the mother bird whistles along. She soon departs though, off to find food for her young, no doubt, and it’s while the bird’s gone that it happens. As Rumplestiltskin and Belle watch, one of the nestlings hops onto the edge of the nest, beating its not yet matured wings. And then, the stupid little creature falls.

He sees the horror on Belle’s face as she flings a hand out to catch it despite being much too far away to help. He doesn’t realize he’s done anything until the expression on Belle’s face softens to one of puzzlement. It’s then that she turns to look at him.

“Rumplestiltskin?” She questions. He looks at her and she motions to the tree. It’s then that he sees the chick, frozen in free fall right where his magic halted its possibly fatal descent.

Sheepishly, the imp shrugs and offers a little smile. Belle looks at him approvingly.

“Rumplestiltskin; offering hope for the hopeless.” She smiles.

“Hardly dearie; I just didn’t feel like watching you cry all afternoon over a silly bird.” He defends himself because after all, he is  _the dark one_ , he is to be  _feared_.

He is  _not_  a soft hearted savior of baby birds.

But she beckons him closer and they walk together towards the still frozen chick. He both relishes and despises the closeness that standing beside her affords. The urge to kiss her is strong; his nostrils burn with the effort of fighting it, but fight it he does. For several long seconds, they stand close together, making eyes at each other with the little bird between them. It is Rumplestiltskin who finally concedes in their staring contest. He flicks his wrist and the baby bird is deposited gently into Belle’s waiting hands. Belle shifts, still searching for his eyes. When they do not meet hers she sighs and then goes to the nest and deposits the chick lightly inside.

Then, as if nothing has changed, they resume their previous positions; he on the wall and she in her garden.

But Rumplestiltskin’s mind remains stuck on one thought:

Her lips are  _his_  hope, and he is certainly  _hopeless_.

——-

The third time it happens, he accidentally walks in on her dancing in the kitchen. She’s been busy preparing tea, it seems, because the teacups sit out at the ready, awaiting their allotments of tea (Earl Grey today). But Belle is doing pirouettes here and there, an _arabesque_  and then a plie. Her form is surprisingly good, from what little he knows of the art of dancing.  But it isn’t her  _dancing_  form that has his eyes so much as her  _body’s_ form. 

Dangerous territory for his thoughts, that.

Her eyes are half closed and she’s too engulfed in her ballet to notice him half hidden in the doorway, completely engrossed in the performance she’s unwittingly putting on for him. It’s not until she does a tidy little  _sissonne_  and he moves forward to catch her that she realizes he’s there. Her eyes fly open, surprised to find herself in his arms, their faces nearly touching.

“You’re quite the ballerina, dearie.” He comments and he doesn’t dare linger over the fact that he’s barely got the breath to speak because breathing her in is intoxicating and his powers of resistance already weak.

“I used to watch my mother dance before she died.” Belle admits shyly, and he holds this secret close to his heart; he knows tales of her mother are precious pearls, few and far between.

“And did she dance while making the tea or is this your specialty?” There’s a gentle teasing there, and Belle smiles.

“”Oh yes; she always said tea and tutus went hand in hand.” The humor is gentle and she glows with it, she the woman-child that can joke with monsters. Her smile is lovely and the way her lips shine, he can’t help but imagine how sweet they must taste after tea; sweet and warm and lush.

He quickly breaks away and spins her then bows; performance done.

“Tea and tutus indeed.” He responds with a warm, somewhat kind smile before he departs, leaving Belle’s heart racing in his wake.

——-

The fourth time, she’s insisted on making him  a lavish meal. Truffles, she says, are called for. He’s willing to purchase them for her in town, even offers to take her with him so she can select them herself.

She politely declines.

“No?” He repeats, stunned.

“No.” She affirms, smiling shyly. “I can’t trust anyone else to pick them; I’ve got to find them myself. They’ve got to be prepared  _just so_.”

He frowns at the notion of his little Belle out mushroom hunting. He doesn’t like letting his trinkets leave and though she’s no object, she’s his most prized, most beloved return from any deal he’s ever made.

“Very well; you’ll need to stay close to the castle though.” He  informs her, and she nods her head.

“That’s fine; the forest around here looks to be rich with potential.” She grins. “But I  _will_ need assistance.”

“Well of course I’ll accompany you, dearie. Imagine the trouble you’d get into on your own.”  _Imagine if I weren’t there to protect you_ , more like.

“That’s very chivalrous of you, but I wasn’t asking for  _your_  help, though you’re welcome to come.”

His brows rocket upward and he feels his jaw go a little slack with surprise, prompting a giggle from her.

“And what kind of help  _do you_  require?” He asks, somewhat afraid of her response.

“A pig’s.” She states simply and he feels his jaw hang a little lower.

She moves forward, pressing her index finger gently to the bottom of his jaw to close his mouth.

“Careful there, Rumplestiltskin,” she chides in a soft, breathy voice, “you wouldn’t want to catch flies with that mouth of yours.” She exhales and suddenly they are both still, both aware of the contact between their skin, of how her body is gently pressed to his.

And suddenly he is deaf and blind and mute to everything but her, his senses  _screaming out_  for her.

_No, he doesn’t want to catch flies with his mouth. He wants to catch her lips with it, her tongue, all of her._

He backs away a step and throws up his hands in a dramatic little gesture to buy himself time to learn how to speak again. He’s suddenly forgotten how, it seems, but distance from her helps him to remember.

“A pig it is, dearie.”

He vanishes without warning, leaving her alone to contemplate the warmth of her cheeks and the dull ache in her heart. Rumplestiltskin, meanwhile, is off to find a pig and anything else that might distract him from how her body had felt against his.

——-

The fifth time is when she’s taken ill.

It shouldn’t be attractive,  _it isn’t attractive_. She’s burning to the touch, but she quivers and trembles like a hypothermic child.  He keeps her confined to her bed and he changes out a washcloth upon her forehead thrice an hour, trying to cool her brow. There’s a bucket at her bedside and each time she reaches for it to wretch, a part of him snaps and shatters He wants to magic it away, but he’s terrified of what the price for her healing might be. A worsened illness down the road? What if he messes up and causes her harm?

Rumplestiltskin’s always been a coward, but he’s terrified of hurting her more than anything else. Using magic on her seems a grievous wrong, because any price to be paid might be negative. And to do wrong by her is sin epitomized.

So he tends to her, more fiercely than any midwife or nursemaid. When she’s coherent and the fever’s not burning her brain mad, she talks with him quietly, apologizing for the inconvenience. He silences her right away.  _It is never an inconvenience to care for those you love_. And sitting primly on the edge of her bed, with her beneath the covers like this? Well, it’s as close as he can hope to get to actually sharing her bed.

“My mother used to take ill like this all the time when she carried me.” Belle murmurs sleepily and he stares down at her attentively.

“Is that so, dearie?” He questions; another pearl, another precious story of the mother taken all too soon.

“Mmhmm.” She sighs and shifts in the bed, her hand falling atop his. He’s so distracted by the contact; he’s startled when she speaks up again.

“I always used to fear being with child because of it. Carrying me sat so poorly with my mother.” She speaks the words slowly, taking twice as long as she normally would to say this, but he hangs on each word.

“I thought it would be terrible. And I was afraid of dying, like she did.”  His heart’s racing; these are intimate details , private fears not meant for sharing.

“I don’t think that anymore.” She sighs. His mouth is dry as he responds, but he has to ask. He  _must_  ask.

“And why’s that?” His heart is silent, still, as he awaits her answer.

“Because I have you now.” She breathes, her eyelids sagging as the fever starts to burn and muddle her brain once more. “And you wouldn’t let us be hurt.”

 _Us_.

“You and who?”

“The baby; you wouldn’t let anything bad befall us. So I’m not afraid anymore. I’ll be a good mother.”  She smiles, drifting off.

He’s left there, overcome by emotion. Belle’s vulnerable, she never would have said such things otherwise. But the fact that this girl, instead of  _giving up_  on her dreams of having children now has  _begun_  to dream them, because she  _trusts him to save her_? That is too much.

She sees him as her white knight, but he’s just a charlatan; if there is a knight for her, it is certainly not him. But that does not make the temptation to kiss her, to give her everything she wants, any less extreme. His face is already hovering dangerously close to hers when he alters course and retreats, ever the coward.

But she is right.

He’d never let anything bad befall her. Or the child he’s now determined to somehow, someway, give her.


	2. All That Is Not Lost

The sixth time is only seven months after Emma Swan arrived in Storybrooke and he remembered that he was Rumplestiltskin. He’s walking down Main Street, because he _really_  does need to check in on the wolf girl and her grandmother to remind them that their next payment is coming due.

And that is when he sees her.

She exits the diner sandwiched between Emma Swan and Mary Margaret and he sees that it is her. His Belle. Alive. Here.

He’s frozen for a second and then his heart is racing because she is not marked by cleric’s hands, she is not rotting in the ground. She is alive.

He rushes forward as fast as his bad knee will carry him, but as he stumbles closer, Belle and the two women notice his charge and instantly, his brave little Belle flinches away, into Mary Margaret.

The look on her face says she is  _terrified_.

He stops just a few feet away, giving the poor girl a buffer zone. Emma eyes Gold curiously and of course she must ask,  _why must they always ask questions he does not want to answer_?

“You in a rush or something, Mr. Gold?” Oh, how clever. Clever girl, their savior. He must resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“Just anxious for a chat with the proprietor, Ms. Swan.” He intones, but his eyes remain trained on Belle.

“I’m sorry; I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He speaks softly, but even still the girl shirks away, terror still plain upon her face. Mary Margaret holds her in a tight embrace, looks to Emma for help and she nods. Quickly, Mary Margaret and Belle depart, Belle clinging to her friend for dear life.

“That’s Moe French’s daughter.” Emma intones gently as she and Gold watch the pair retreat. “I was at the hospital making sure evacuation protocol was up to code and found her there. I’m pretty sure Regina called in favors to get that girl thrown in there, because she’s sane and harmless. I got her out but, as you can tell, she’s terrified of strangers.”

Gold feels numb to everything but his desire to hold and kiss Belle back to good health and an equally strong urge to rip Regina apart. But now is not the time, so instead he nods in understanding.

“Of course; poor lass.  _Do_  take care of her, Ms. Swan.”

Emma nods and begins to walk away when he whacks her across the back with his cane. She whirls to face him, irritated until she catches his expression.

“I mean it Ms. Swan; let me know if you need  _any_  help with the girl.”

And then he is left alone with only his complete and utter mortification for company. Because Belle is terrified of him. Because she is terrified of strangers.

And he, apparently, is a stranger.

Which is why, on this, the sixth time, a small part of him dies.

——-

The seventh time is months later; he’s sitting in his shop and resisting the urge to take his cane and smash everything in it to bits. Because  _of course_  Regina has just left. And  _of course_  she has made mention of Belle, taunting him with the thing he wants but cannot have.

Because Belle does not remember. She is not his.  _She never really was_. And Regina’s threats against the girl do not fall on deaf ears. But he still has one card left to play and play it he does.

 _Please_.

Such a simple word, really. But  _so very effective_.

Regina’s been gone all of five minutes when the bell on his shop front door jingles and instantly his teeth are bared, his hackles are raised because Gold is one wolf that fights alone and he will  _fucking destroy Regina_.

“Back for more?” He snarls, rounding the corner to find himself face to face with… Belle.

His jaw goes slack, shock registering and then regret and then swiftly he’s back to nothing, because neutral is a better expression than one that says  _I love you, remember me_.

She’s white as a sheet and no small wonder why. This innocent doe is afraid of her own shadow, and she’s just been growled at by a hulking wolf.

“I-I can go, I’m sorry…” She stammers, and she’s wearing that ‘deer in the headlights’ expression that tells him the curse still hasn’t given back the bravery it stole from her .

“No! I thought you were someone else.  _You_  are welcome here, dearie.” He rushes to soothe the burn his fiery words have caused, extending a hand gently to her.

She walks forward timidly, and withdraws from within her purse a simple, antique gold watch. It’s unspeakably plain, but he can tell by the way she handles it that it’s of great value to her..

“Lovely piece.” He lies, offering her as soft a smile as he can muster, trying his best to be unimposing. But good grief, she’s so close and everything he wants in the world is right in front of him and yet, miles and miles away.

“Thank you; my Papa adores it, but it broke some time ago and I’m afraid he rather misses wearing it.” It’s a simple story for a simple watch worn by a simple man.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” He queries, accepting the watch she deposits in his hand. Her fingertips barely brush his palm, but the touch burns like wildfire. He busies his hands with the watch, when all his mind can process is how much  _better_  it would feel to busy his fingers with the buttons of her blouse instead.

The solution is as simple as the watch itself; a dead battery. Really, he’s surprised the simpleton didn’t think to replace that first, but Moe French is far from the scholar his daughter is.

“There you are, dearie.” He smiles, handing the watch back. He finds that she’s been staring at him and as his eyes catch hers she drops his gaze and blushes.

“Thank you.” She breathes, the corners of her lips just turning upward ever so slightly. “What was wrong with it?” She queries, turning it over in her palm as if he has worked magic upon it.  _If only she knew_.

“A dead battery, love.” He grins at the way she ducks her head in embarrassment, and it is clear she thought it would be something more in depth than a simple battery change.

“Oh. Well, thank you Mr. Gold. What do I owe you?” She inquires, rifling through her purse. And before he can stop himself, he places a hand over the one that’s just grabbed hold of her wallet and he shakes his head.

“No charge, Ms. French.” His eyes burn with his need for her, but he forces his face to remain impassive. “You just tell your father how lucky he is to have you for a daughter.”

Belle smiles and her blush deepens a little. He slowly withdraws his hand from hers and after a soft final ‘thank you’ and a strained ‘goodbye’, he watches her disappear from his shop.

——-

The eighth time, he’s prowling through the shelves of dusty, forgotten volumes in the Storybrooke library. Regina’s been at it again,  _fucking witch bitch_  that she is, and he’s in need of something strong to make tea out of. Something so potent that Regina won’t notice the faint sticky sweet taste of the Doll’s eyes poison he’ll mix in with it.

He’s browsing through what might as well be an encyclopedia of herbal concoctions (are there really  _that many_  plants, to fill  _that many_  pages?) when she rounds the corner and freezes, clearly surprised to see him.

“Oh! I’m sorry I didn’t know anyone was here… Mr. Gold?” She questions upon recognizing the man behind the book.

His head jerks up and the book snaps shut, suddenly forgotten in the wake of her arrival.

“Ms. French.” He responds and even though he tries to, he cannot keep the joyful lilt out of his voice. She looks…  _better_. He’ll need to find a way of thanking Ms. Swan and Ms. Blanchard for that. His little Belle is positively glowing.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, I’m sorry. This section doesn’t usually get a lot of visitors.” She offers as explanation.

“And so you thought you might keep the books company?” He’s teasing and she sees the humor in his words and smiles. In that moment, she’s once again his caretaker that jokes with monsters and  _heavens help him he wants her_. Here and now, between  _Herbal Remedies: An A to Z Guide_  and  _The Modern Horticulturist_ , he  _aches_  for her.

But as always, he must not have her.

“No, I… well, I work here now. And the other librarian, she thinks I’m a little ‘off’. So I take my lunch alone.” She motions to the brown bag in her hand and he feels anger bubble up in him.  _She is an angel and she eats alone between the books_.

“By all means, allow me to join you then.” He’s inviting himself. Manners be damned. She laughs softly and agrees, seating herself cross legged on the floor as he follows suit, awkward in his suit and cradling his bad knee.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, motioning to the gargantuan book in his hands. It’s a good question; he’s all but forgotten, now that she’s arrived.

“Oh, this? …Something unorthodox to make into tea. Something strong.” He explains. “I’m afraid I’m hopelessly overwhelmed.”

Belle nods and mulls for a moment while chewing on a bite of peanut butter and jelly sandwich (ever a child at heart, he thinks).

“May I?” She motions to the book. He offers it willingly and her fingers expertly skim the pages before she lands on one that seems to satisfy her.

“There you are – lemon verbena. I’d suggest blending some mint in with it. It’s delicious, or at least  _I_  think it is. It’s my favorite, actually.”

He’s quite certain it is now his favorite too.

——-

The ninth time, magic is heavy in the air; Regina’s curse is failing and soon, magic will return. Already the current of it is singing in his veins, just out of reach but close enough to taste.

So when his phone trills, he answers it swiftly, the weight of his hopes nearly suffocating him when he hears Emma’s voice on the other end.

“She remembers.”

He’s out the door before Emma says another word and speeding to the sheriff’s apartment, speed limit and stop signs be damned.

The stairs that lead him up to the cozy space the three women share seem interminably long, but he takes them at a bound, using the railing for support as he goes. By the time he knocks on their door, he’s out of breath and in pain, but he’s  _here_  and she  _remembers_ and he wants nothing more than to let her breathe life into him with those lips of hers.

It’s Mary Margaret who opens the door, though she’s been Snow White again for some two months now.

“That was fast.” She remarks, and there’s a bit of a biting edge to her tone. Snow White always did have more snap and crackle and a hell of a lot more  _pop_  than Mary Margaret. “Go sit down in the living room before you give yourself a heart attack. I’ll go ask her if she wants to see you.”

Ask, not tell. No one tells Belle anything.  _She decides her own fate_.

He’s alone for a few minutes before she appears and heavens help him if that yellow sundress isn’t a reincarnation of the golden getup she wore the first time he met her.

He’s on his feet and across the room before he can stop himself, standing in front of her with eyes that are searching for something familiar, and finding a great deal of it in her eyes.

There’s that glint, that glimmer, that fierce determination and that never say die sparkle in her eyes.

“ _Belle_.” It rushes out of him, this realization that his entire world is here before him. He reaches a hand out and cups her face, his thumb running over her cheek in wonder.

He’s contemplating what kind of kiss it should be (soft and sweet and asking, or hard and fierce and wanting?) when her voice reaches his ears.

“I’m sorry… I don’t remember you.”

And just like that, he’s watching his world burn.

His hand drops awkwardly from her face and he’s unsure what to do. His eyes turn accusingly to Emma and he takes a step toward her, his teeth already bared. Gold may have composure, but Rumplestiltskin most certainly does not.

“You said  _she remembered_.” He hurls the accusation at the supposed savior and Emma raises her hands in innocence.

“You hung up before I could finish; she remembers  _some_  of her life. Snow  says that it could be Regina meddled with her memories. It’s possible she won’t ever recover them.”

Gold is numb to everything though. He turns back to Belle and she meets his gaze, brave as ever but clearly embarrassed. She’s missing memories and he can only imagine the feeling of nakedness and vulnerability that goes with that.

“I’m sorry.” She offers and though there’s kindness in her voice but ‘kindness’ and ‘love’ are rather distinct entities.

He offers a strained, sad smile and shakes his head.

“You needn’t apologize, dearie. It’s not your fault.”

But that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Emma walks him out and pretends not to notice the tears welling, unshed, within his dark eye.

“She might remember someday.” The swan savior offers. He can only bob his head from behind hunched shoulders.

“Snow’s been trying to help her.” Emma explains and he whirls to face her suddenly, his expression fierce.

“Don’t push her. She’s better off not knowing. Just…if you want my help when all this goes to hell, do whatever is necessary to keep her safe.” Emma’s taken aback and because she always does,  _she asks more of him_

“What was she to you?”

It should be an easy question to answer.  _It isn’t_.

“She was the moon.”

And it isn’t  _untrue_. She was, after all, his light in the darkness.

 _Was_.

——-

The tenth time,   the world is nothing but a smoking, heaving pile of rubble and ash. She is a child-warrior, barely a woman and yet, more woman than any other female he’s ever met.

She still lacks the full breadth of her memory. She knows she is Belle, daughter of a troubled father king, princess of a kingdom shaken once upon a time by ogre wars. Her memories of  _him,_ however,have yet to return. There’s no telling if they ever will.

Curses are tricky business, after all.

He spots her picking her way through the rubble of what was once Regina’s castle. His heart soars at the sight of her whole and mostly untouched by the bloodbath. She boasts a gash across her brow and there’s a river of blood pouring from it, but as he probes the wound with his magic, he senses it is only superficial. With a bit of prompting, his magic begins to stitch the split flesh back together.

That’s when she whirls to him, sword drawn and teeth bared.

When she sees it’s him she stills, the sword drooping like a flower in the summer heat.

“Oh. It’s  _you_.”  The sword is returned to its sheath, but there’s still anger and uncertainty on her face.

“You shouldn’t use magic on someone without their permission.” She advises. “I could have taken your head off.” She remarks, patting the ruby and sapphire crusted hilt of her sword (Excalibur, he notes approvingly).

“I’m not so sure you’re made of strong enough stuff to do me in as easily as that, dearie.” He smirks “”I’m afraid it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

It’s her turn to look smug now. She raises a brow, a devious glint in her eyes.

“Is that so? How odd. That’s not the first time I’ve been told that today.”

She swings the sack on her shoulder down to the ground and plunges a gloved hand inside, withdrawing the blonde tresses and pale face of Maleficent.

Well, of Maleficent’s  _head_. Her body’s nowhere to be found and it doesn’t take a genius to piece two and two together.

His eyes widen and the breath he draws through gritted teeth whistles loudly in admiration. She’s changed, his Belle. He sees it in her carriage of herself. This is a woman, childlike innocence gone, but still very much the Belle he once knew. No damsels in distress, no sticky sweet love stories.  _She likes her heroines fierce and her love stories born of trial and tribulation_.

He wants to kiss every inch of her, changed but beautifully, mercifully unchanged that she is.

But as always, he does not.

“Well, it would seem you’re a far more formidable warrior than I gave you credit for.” He remarks with a flourish and a bow. “Madame witch-killer.”

She grins at the title and there’s his mischievous girl, somewhere in there. Reborn from the ashes; a Phoenix child.

With a sad smile, he begins to walk away, crossing over the steaming ogre corpses and the occasional troll or piece of slain dragon.

He’s midstride, crossing toward the town center’s remains when she yells his name.

_“Rumplestiltskin!”_

He turns.

She’s dropped the satchel bearing her prize, and her sword is slapping against her thigh, her chainmail’s jangling and she looks  _utterly_   _ridiculous_ as she bounds toward him. She’s tripping over dragon legs and broken catapults, but she keeps going, running until she crashes into his arms with the force of a tsunami.

He’s not sure what he expects, but the punch she delivers to his jaw once she’s collected herself is most certainly  _not_  it.

“Damn you.” She breathes, quickly cupping his face in her hands as apology for the punch. “Damn you, you stupid, stubborn,  _foolish_  man.” He’s confused as hell, but the catch of her voice and the way she sobs the words makes him forget his own pain and confusion. He knows and cares only for her.

“Dearie, I’m afr-“

“Shut up.” She snaps and he falls silent.

“Damn you. I may not remember, but I have ears. They’ve told me. That I loved you. That I kissed you. That you turned me away.  _Everything._ ” She’s spewing words like a severed artery spouts blood. “And damn it I  _want_ to love you. I  _want to_. But you make it so  _fucking difficult_. And I should  _hate you_ , for what you did to me, for what you did to my _father_.” She hisses, still holding his face in her hands like she can’t decide whether to deck him again or to kiss him until he’s gasping for air.

His hands have crept to her waist, tentatively, furtively, as though he’s terrified of being told no.

_She will tell him many things today, tonight and in the years to come. But ‘no’ will not be amongst them._

“I’m sorry dearie. I wasn’t trying to be difficult.” He soothes, or attempts to anyway. But this only ruffles her feathers more, it seems.

“Of course you weren’t  _trying_  to be difficult. You don’t have to  _try_. It comes  _naturally_.” She whispers. For some long moments it is silent, just her holding him and him holding her while the world burns.

And then, suddenly, she is pulling him to her and she’s kissing him as he’s only  _dreamed_ of kissing her before. And it is urgent and fierce and desperate and there is longing and want and the heady weight of lust and the spark of an old love. There’s a thousand different emotions in that kiss and it’s more than he can process, more than she and her fractured mind can understand.

But all she knows is that he smells like oakmoss and leather; all he knows is that she smells like labdanum and lilies. He tastes faintly of lemon and there’s a trace of earth and tea to him; she’s like vanilla and wine and he’s drunk on her already.

It’s impossible to tell where  _he_  ends and where  _she_  begins. They’re so tightly pressed against one another they might as well be one being.

It’s a kiss that goes on and on. It doesn’t matter that they’re surrounded by death, or that happy endings are still in jeopardy elsewhere. What matters is the way he tastes on her tongue, the way she feels in his arms, all interlocking arms and twining fingers.

When at last, they break away, they do so slowly; he’s reluctant to release the lips he’s spent a lifetime longing for and she can’t let go of the only thing that is stable and real amidst the chaos.

When his eyes find hers though, he can see the change. It’s a subtle shine that says  _I know you, most truly_. 

This time, when she hits him, it’s with an open palm and the smack is loud and rings out in the relative quiet. He blinks at her, confused.

“If you  _ever_  leave me again, if you  _ever_  send me away, I won’t come back.” She sobs, and he sees the tears winding trails down her face now, because bless her, she  _remembers everything._

“I wouldn’t dream of it dearie.” He whispers. He’s never spoken a truer phrase.

“We made a deal.” She reminds him as he tilts her chin up and stares into her eyes.

“We did; forever’s a rather long time to spend with a beast though.” He’s teasing, but there’s a serious root to this remark.

“Not a beast; an ordinary man.” She corrects and hidden below this is her answer  _I want you. I choose you. I need you_.

The next kiss that they share ensures that he is exactly that; an ordinary man with an extraordinary love. Because true love’s kiss can break any spell; it’s broken hers and it breaks his just as easily, until they are nothing more than two lovers gripped in the most passionate kisses their armor and wounds can permit them to enjoy.

This kiss is followed by many more; it’s followed by celebrations long into the night when Regina’s head joins Maleficent’s. It’s a kiss that is followed by a wedding. It’s a love that brings about five blue eyed, brown haired children (two boys and three girls), because he swore to give her children to have and to hold, so he gives them to her. It’s a love that, each night, reminds them that true love is  _hope_  and that it fuels their dreams and that it must be fought for.

Theirs has been hard fought and hard won, but they both know that theirs is a love that is worth every drop of sweat, blood and tears that went into securing it.

And if ever they forget, theirs is a love that needs only a kiss to remind them.


End file.
